Anthology
by hiding duh
Summary: 25 ficlets, pulled from the Random Pairing Generator. Up: Peter/Sylar; Claire/Lyle; Isaac/Simone; Haitian/Maya; Claire/Elle; Noah/Claire; Sylar/Nathan; Matt/Peter; Caitlin/Ricky; Nathan/Meridith; Claire/Ando; Lyle/Peter; Peter/Claire; Claude/Noah; Matt/Te
1. I

**Title**: Anthology  
**Fandom**: Heroes  
**Rating**: G through R  
**Spoilers**: Through 3x07  
**Notes**: 25 ficlets, pulled from the Almost Totally Random Pairing Generator; varying degrees of canon. Updated in batches of five. Bold = complete.

* * *

01. Nathan / Claire / evolution 02. Noah / Claire / games 03. Sylar / Angela / in the future 04. Micah / Mohinder / saints and sinners 05. Claire / Ando / open adoration 06. Micah / Nathan / anything you want 07. Sylar / Nathan / stay for a while 08. Mohinder / Peter / night owl 09. Peter / Angela / hear me out 10. Matt / Ted / in bed 11. Ando / Micah / faith 12. Lyle / Peter / ride of your life 13. Ando / Kaito / get it done 14. Claude / Noah / deal 15. Peter / Claire / kinda cute 16. Audrey / Janice / my place **17. Sylar / Peter / home baked muffins** 18. Matt / Peter / no touching 19. Caitlin / Ricky / coffee 20. Meredith / Nathan / the next morning **21. Claire / Lyle / on the phone** 22. Monica / Micah / walk for a minute **23. Isaac / Simone / make a move** **24. The Haitian / Maya / in traffic** **25. Claire / Elle / awkward**

* * *

*****

**XVII  
Sylar (Gabriel Gray) / Peter Petrelli / home baked muffins**

The first time Sylar bakes muffins, Peter tosses them into the nearest planter when no one is looking.

It's nothing personal against the muffins. He just has issues with his brother. Sylar, after all, is sort of homicidal, and Peter knows from experience the guy can't help it. His muffin recipe is probably three cups flour, one cup sugar, and four cups arsenic.

And aside from Claire, Petrellis aren't immortal. Arsenic would probably kill them.

"They're not poisoned," Sylar says calmly, looming over the oven.

"What? I didn't say they were," Peter defends, toeing the muffins behind the pot. "Sorry, must've dropped mine. Next time, okay?"

The second time Sylar bakes muffins, Peter's too late. Ma's nibbling on hers, Nate's sniffing his, and Sylar's smiling from the shadows.

Luckily, Peter's a nurse. He can handle emergencies. He's certified. He has experience. Except, nothing actually happens. Muffins are sniffed, eaten, taken home, praised a little.

Peter grows curious.

The third time Sylar bakes muffins, Peter sort of bites into one. And doesn't die.

"You're going to have to learn to trust me, Peter."

Peter shrugs one shoulder. "Give me a couple decades."

Amused, Sylar grins wickedly. "Enjoy this batch, Peter. I made it especially for you."

Peter licks the crumbs off his fingers, quirking an eyebrow. "That's disturbing."

Sylar agrees, sitting across from his brother at the kitchen counter. "I even put in a little something extra."

Peter pauses mid-bite. "Whf?"

Calmly, Sylar glances at his watch, lips twitching.

"Laxatives."

*****

**XXI  
Claire Bennet / Lyle Bennet / on the phone**

Lyle hates buying newspapers.

But here he is, at the cafeteria, forking over two bucks and killing several trees in an attempt to find a reliable source of income. He's learned his lesson that one time he browsed Craigslist.

Anyway, the Classifieds suck. He needs to find a job, or maybe sell his PS2. He can't donate eggs or bartend, but maybe someone will give him a position in, like, the retail industry. Whatever that entails. Christmas is coming—maybe he can work for Santa. Or something less humiliating.

His phone beeps once, low and urgent.

Lyle sighs. New text message from Claire. _It's snowing in NYC! 3_

"It's like I'm subscribed to the Weather Channel," he grumbles, but slides his phone open and replies: _Fascinating, Claire_.

He leaves the phone on the table, eyeing it warily while circling viable job offers.

The phone beeps again, rotating towards him. _Aww, they're selling chestnuts on every corner_...

Lyle stares at his phone for a moment, then speed-dials his stupid sister. "I thought you were working."

"Good morning to you, too!" she chirps obnoxiously.

"No, seriously," he complains, tapping a red sharpie to the newspaper, "aren't you roaming?"

He can hear the smile in her voice and it pisses him off. "What? We have the family plan, dork. It's free."

Annoyed, Lyle glances at his phone, then makes a face he wishes she could see. "Maybe for your _other_ family. You left your old phone _here_."

She's quiet for a moment. "Yeah, I guess I forgot. It's been hectic."

Lyle thinks about asking, but it's not like she'll tell him, so he shrugs. "You made me go over my minutes."

Her tone changes slightly. "Um, I'm sorry." She pauses. "I'll just... email you then, okay?"

"Whatever."

He hangs up, frowning, chest tight.

Quickly, he rubs his eyes, focusing on an ad for the suburban job fair. Fine. Whatever. He'll go work for some stupid evil corporation and he _will_ pay his own damn phone bill. And screw it, he'll even upgrade his plan, get more minutes and that rollover stuff and video access. Not because of Claire, of course.

That would be lame.

His phone beeps once. _You know I only have one family, right?_

He stares at the screen, scowling, but his chest feels lighter.

_You know every text message costs $.50, right?_

The phone doesn't beep for several minutes, but then:

_I love you, too, Lyle_.

Lyle flips his phone off and buries his head in the newspaper. He doesn't reply because it's freakin' expensive, okay, and he doesn't have a job.

He purses his lips.

Yet.

*****

**XXIII  
Isaac Mendez / Simone Deveaux / make a move**

She's bought four of his paintings this week.

One of them's barely even representational—messy abstract streaks and stains she suspects are entirely coffee-spill related—and she's practically inhaled the newest edition of _9th Wonders_ in front of him. And she doesn't read comics. Ever.

Honestly, not even Linderman will buy this stuff, so seriously, what's it gonna take for this idiot to ask her out?

"I should have the next batch ready by Monday," he says, wiping his hands on a rag and crossing the studio with an smile. "You'll love them; I've been... inspired lately."

Simone smiles indulgently. "Oh, I'm sure I'll love them."

Silence ensues.

Ranting mentally, she grabs her coat and starts for the door. "Well, I should go..." When he doesn't stop her, she takes a deep breath and turns around. "Isaac."

He looks up innocently, a brush pressed between his lips.

She gives a tiny internal groan, then tries to look professional. "I have a gallery opening this Thursday—"

"That's great, Simone!" he congratulates her, genuinely impressed. "I know how hard you've worked."

She wonders if he'd mind if she punched him out a little. "Yes, well, I've been too busy to find someone to go with..."

Nodding, Isaac slides a giant canvas onto a tiny easel, commenting, "Yeah, it can be tough, in this city."

Right. Well. She's going to kill him with his own paint bucket. "Isaac—"

He looks up at her with a boyish grin. "I'll pick you up at seven?"

She bites her lip to keep from smiling. "Okay, but only because I won't be able to find anyone else on such short notice."

"Hey." His hair hides his face as he bends over to pick up a sketchbook, muscles flexing. "Consider this an early Christmas present."

The sketchbook drops into her hands. She flips through it, lips curling. "Oh."

Cautious, he scratches his neck, smearing paint everywhere. "Too much?"

She runs her fingers over one of the sketches, fixing her eyes on his. "Guess I do have nice lips."

His smile is blinding. "Among other things."

Simone throws her coat back on the hanger, descending the steps. "Maybe I'll just stay here until Thursday," she tells him, heels clicking against the floor.

"Well," he replies, fidgeting, "it'll make picking you up really convenient—"

She kisses him.

Only to shut him up, of course.

*****

**XXIV  
The Haitian / Maya Herrera / in traffic**

This is wrong.

She's going home. They gave her money, a new identity, freedom. But she still feels... ah, _cómo se dice_? Not right.

"Are you taking me to the airport?" she asks, leaning her forehead against the passenger side window.

The man eases off the gas, maneuvering the car around a long line of vehicles. "If that is what you wish."

She looks over at him, frowning. "Yes, of course."

He doesn't say anything more, so she fixes her eyes on the road ahead, blocked by trucks and motorists.

"Are you a man of God?" she asks suddenly, surprising even herself.

His reply is calm, rehearsed. "Aren't we all?"

Maya's eyes soften. "Yes."

The bridge looms in the distance, blurred by the morning fog.

"Would you like to forget?" she thinks she hears him ask, in an accent softer than hers.

The pendant around his neck catches the rising sun, making her squint. "What?"

"If you could forget," he asks, not looking at her. "Would you?"

She gives a small sigh, twisting her fingers around her old rosary. "I would like to forget, yes."

He merges onto the bridge, wedged between a limousine and a scooter. "Which parts."

It doesn't sound like a question, and Maya doesn't believe in angels anymore, but she finds herself answering, "All of it." Her heart constricts. "Alejandro." She winces, bringing a hand to her chest. "And Gabriel. Mohinder."

He inclines his head, both hands on the wheel.

She sits up straighter, eyes widening. "Wait, you can do this? You have a... power...?"

"If you are sure," he says instead of answering her, "I will make you forget."

She considers his words for a moment. "Yes. I am sure."

He finally looks at her, expressionless.

She feels the car pull to a stop and her shoulders stiffen. "Wait."

He unbuckles his seat belt and silently reaches out for her.

Her breath hitches in anticipation.

"Wait," she repeats. "I would like to remember you," she tells him as his hands gently press against her forehead.

She won't.

*****

**XXV  
Claire Bennet / Elle Bishop / awkward**

"We can't just skip breakfast."

Elle twitches. "I'm about to nuke Manhattan and you want to stop for _donuts_?"

Claire wrinkles her nose. "Ew, no." She points at a distant pastry shop. "Milkshakes."

Electricity is crackling all around her, but Elle pauses to stare at this little weirdo. "How do people not try to kill you all the time?"

Claire shrugs, wrapping her arms around Elle for support. "Are you serious? Who _hasn't_ tried to kill me? Including me."

Elle's lips quirk up involuntarily. "I'm sure your lame parents haven't," she mumbles, shifting her weight onto Claire.

Claire snorts, fingers digging into Elle's side. "My mom shot me yesterday."

Grossed out by the sudden urge to pat Claire's head, Elle quickly turns her face, nose accidentally colliding with Claire's.

"Lesbians!"

A couple of frat boys are staring at them expectantly, huddled in front of the pastry shop.

"Great," Claire sighs, narrowing her eyes.

"Yo," one of the boys shouts, tipping his baseball cap, "you girls lookin' for some action?"

"No," Claire replies, annoyed. "Just milkshakes, thanks."

"Wha, just give us a lil' show," the other boy pipes up obnoxiously, "and we'll get you some milkshakes, yeah?"

Elle can practically feel Claire's blood boiling, and she's generally good at _this_, so she steadies herself and brings a hand to Claire's face. "Play along."

"What?" Claire whispers harshly.

"It's weird," Elle smiles, eyes sparkling, "I just really want a milkshake now."

"Wait, no—"

Claire's protests are muffled beneath Elle's lips. It's an awkward kiss, all lips, no tongue, and Claire's definitely fighting her, but Elle enjoys the attention.

The catcalls and whistles die down quickly. The boys are still watching them, but their faces are frozen in an awkward sort of realization, and then they're shuffling off, occasionally glancing back over their shoulders.

Claire coughs violently, wiping her mouth, cheeks flushed. "Well, I'll live forever..." she says, more to herself, "...was bound to experience this eventually. I guess."

Elle resists licking her lips. "You're going to live forever?" She leans on Claire, hopping off the sidewalk and bounding into the pastry shop. "Seriously, I hate you."

Claire scoffs, fingers wrapping gently around Elle's shoulder. "Yeah, yeah, I usually kiss people I hate, too." She beams up at the cashier. "A large chocolate with caramel, please."

The cashier glances at Elle.

"Oh, we'll share."

Claire rolls her eyes but doesn't protest.

Though it's a terrible breakfast, this is totally the best milkshake Elle's ever had.


	2. II

Ten down!

This is where a table would go if FFN didn't strip formatting:

* * *

01. Nathan / Claire / evolution; **02. Noah / Claire / games;** 03. Sylar / Angela / in the future; 04. Micah / Mohinder / saints and sinners; 05. Claire / Ando / open adoration; 06. Micah / Nathan / anything you want;** 07. Sylar / Nathan / stay for a while;** 08. Mohinder / Peter / night owl; 09. Peter / Angela / hear me out; 10. Matt / Ted / in bed; 11. Ando / Micah / faith; 12. Lyle / Peter / ride of your life; 13. Ando / Kaito / get it done; 14. Claude / Noah / deal; 15. Peter / Claire / kinda cute; 16. Audrey / Janice / my place; **17. Sylar / Peter / home baked muffins;** **18. Matt / Peter / no touching; 19. Caitlin / Ricky / coffee; 20. Meredith / Nathan / the next morning;** **21. Claire / Lyle / on the phone;** 22. Monica / Micah / walk for a minute; **23. Isaac / Simone / make a move;** **24. The Haitian / Maya / in traffic;** **25. Claire / Elle / awkward**

* * *

*****

**II  
Noah Bennet / Claire Bennet / games**

The first game they played together was _Sorry_.

The board was tattered from too much use, frayed at the corners, but Claire insisted they keep it.

So Noah would smugly knock off her pawn when it landed on his square. He'd watch her pout and then instruct her, "See this, Claire-bear? You should always get to the safety zone first." His gaze would focus. "Or you'll lose."

She'd look up at him with big sad eyes and say, "That's so unfair, Daddy."

When she got too big to play silly boardgames, Noah coaxed her into playing with him outside. She told him she wanted to be a cheerleader when she grew up, but he taught her football instead. She was all curls and chubby cheeks and he'd toss her the ball and send her into the end zone.

"Stay sharp!" he'd say, waving his arms from the other side. "If I tackle you now, you'll lose." His lips would curl. "And what do we call that, Claire-bear?"

She'd clutch the ball to her chest and mumble, "Safety, Dad."

Occasionally, she'd whine: "Why can't we ever play on the same side?" and he'd tell her, "Well, then it wouldn't be much of a game, would it?"

In New York, Noah feels like they're playing a new game.

She flies by him, wilful and confident, too cocky and too reckless. Often, he tells her, "Slow down, pace yourself, you'll get hurt," but she only smiles and rushes on.

He has no choice but to try and teach her these things—how to aim, how to shoot, how to survive—but she says, "No need, Daddy, I got it."

On missions, she doesn't listen, thinks he's got nothing to teach her or that he can't keep her safe. It's a game to her, catching bad guys, stopping crime. She forgets herself sometimes, stretches out her little hands to catch bullets meant for him, and beams, "No, Dad, we'll do it my way."

The daughter he raised is shattering before his eyes, fraying at the edges, but he insists on keeping her.

The last game Noah plays with his daughter is hide and seek.

And once again, they're not playing on the same side.

*****

**VII  
Sylar (Gabriel Gray) / Nathan Petrelli / stay for a while**

Nathan remembers.

Though vaguely, through a haze, he thinks maybe there was a kid brother there, before Peter, before they moved to the city, before Ma made him go see all those doctors. He remembers her round belly, and thinks it's strange that the name doesn't sound familiar.

"Gabriel." He tests it out a few times, sitting in his father's leather chair, swirling some of Dad's old whiskey.

"Yes," Gabriel says patiently.

Ice clinks in his glass as he leans forward. "Well. It's... nice to meet you, Gabriel."

Gabriel smiles. "I can see why you went into politics."

Nathan smirks. "Pete tells me you two have a history."

Eyes dark, Gabriel tilts his head. "I've killed him a few times."

Nathan's hand slides to the drawer by his knee.

"If you're looking for the gun..." Gabriel drawls, waving a hand, and the drawer opens, a small gun nestled within.

Nathan wraps his fingers around the trigger, and brings his other hand to his lips, taking a sip. "I understand it wouldn't hurt you."

"Thanks to your daughter."

Nathan's fingers twitch.

Gabriel rises from his chair, starting for the door. "It was... nice meeting you, Nathan."

"Wait."

Gabriel pauses, glancing at him out of the corner of his eye.

Nathan puts his feet up on the table, letting go of the gun and the glass. "So, Ma tried to kill you?"

Slowly, Gabriel sits back down, expressionless. "She saw a monster in me." He focuses his eyes on Nathan's, unpleasantly sharp. "Father tried to kill you?"

Nathan's lips quirk up. "I saw the monster in him."

Inappropriately amused, Gabriel relaxes. "Obviously, I belong in this family."

Nathan is suddenly serious. "None of us will ever belong in this family."

Gabriel hums, disagreeing. "Give it time."

Unlike Peter and Claire and Gabriel, Nathan can't afford the luxury of waiting.

So he slides his glass across the table, straight into Gabriel's waiting fingers, and pours him a shot.

"We drink ours straight, Gabe."

*****

**XVIII  
Matt Parkman / Peter Petrelli / no touching**

The last time Petrelli touched him, Matt ended up in friggin' Africa, eating dung paste and talking to turtles.

So when he runs into Peter at The Company, Matt has an instant allergic reaction and slams the guy into the closest wall.

"What the—"

Small hands are batting at him, and Matt blinks. "Claire?—"

"You're hurting him!" she shouts, tugging at his elbow, which is currently digging into Petrelli's windpipe. "He can't heal!"

Matt loosens his hold. "He sent me to Africa!"

Peter coughs, bringing a hand to his bruised throat. "What? When? _How_?"

Claire frowns and runs off, presumably in search of help.

"I... guess it wasn't you," Matt concedes, taking a step back. "Well, not the present you." He scrunches up his nose. "Whatever, I need your help."

Peter's brows draw together. "Actually, we need _your_ help, Parkman."

"No, you don't understand," Matt begins, frustrated, "I've got this crazy company on my ass—"

"Pinehearst."

"Yeah, and..." After a beat, Matt cocks his head, focusing on Peter's thoughts. "Wait. Your_ dad_?" He drags a hand over his face, mumbling, "Don't take this personally, but I hate you guys."

Rueful, Peter clasps Matt's shoulder. "You understand why we can't just rush over there. We need a plan."

Matt glances at the hand on his shoulder, and contemplates tossing it off. "I have one. Sort of—"

And then he's on the ground, twitching. His vision flickers for a bit and once his eyes can focus clearly again, he sees the Bennet girl standing above him, a discharged taser held firmly in her hands.

"I got help," she says.

Peter flinches, kneeling to feel Matt's pulse. "Are you addicted to that thing?"

"A little," Claire admits.

Matt cringes, barely able to feel his limbs. "On second thought, I think I may go back to Africa for a while." Worried, Peter tries to help him up, but Matt shoves his hands away. "No touching!"

Peter and Claire exchange anxious glances.

With a grunt, Matt stands up, shaky. "Okay, rule number seven," he tells them. "Neither of you touches me again and I won't lock you in a mental prison."

Peter blinks twice, frowning. "Okay."

Matt hobbles over to the door leading into another potentially dangerous corridor. Faintly, Peter's confused thoughts drift through.

_Did I miss the first six rules?_

*****

**XIX  
Caitlin / Ricky / coffee**

Ricky's a cliché.

He likes his coffee Irish, just like his women and football. He also likes to cheat a little—he drinks it through a layer of thick whipped cream, but Caitlin doesn't mind. It's only fitting for a man who sugarcoats everything.

He tells Will and Tuko that Caitlin brews the best coffee in all of Cork, and she knows it's code for "Get lost, little sister, I've got a business to run."

She makes him a pot of coffee, and doesn't listen in on the conversation because he's made her promise not to.

But when the lads have buggered off, and Ricky's in the dingy study, poring over a handwritten ledger, she sneaks in, announcing, "We're out of cream. You'll have to drink it straight."

He hums, ignoring her.

"So," she continues casually, sprawling in the chair opposite his desk. "I was thinkin', maybe I'll go with you next time."

He looks up, eyes sharp. "You won't."

She scowls, lips thinning. "I'm not a child anymore, Ricky," she mutters. "D'you think I don't know what you're "importing" and "exporting" with Will?"

He takes a sip of his coffee, then makes a disgusted face. "What's this?"

"Oh," she smiles. "We're out of sugar, too."

Ricky doesn't seem pleased, so maybe she's pushed the metaphor too far. "You can't protect me forever."

He pushes his cup away, then steeples his fingers, leveling his eyes with hers. "I can try, Caitlin."

So, later, too many years in the future, when she's sitting in a chilly refugee camp, waiting to go back home—wherever and whenever that is—Caitlin craves it.

A hot cup of coffee, hand brewed, gritty with residue and slathered with whipped cream. She doesn't want to drink it. She wants to make it for Ricky.

She doesn't fantasize about Peter coming back to save her. She fantasizes about her old ugly kitchen and the coffee stains on the table. She imagines she's back there, serving up the best coffee in all of Cork, and Ricky's drinking it with that absentminded little grin he's reserved for her, and maybe he says something like, "Won't be long now, Cait, and thanks for the sludge. Forgot the sugar again, eh?"

After all, he's always been sweet enough on his own.

As clichéd as that sounds.

*****

**XX  
Meredith Gordon / Nathan Petrelli / the next morning**

Well.

It's not entirely unexpected, of course. He's a handsome man, charming and irresistible, and she always did have a weakness for politicians. Or was that Niki? Perhaps Tracy? Boy, he's gotta start keeping track.

"Blondes just _do_ something to you, huh?" Meridith asks, amused, sheets tangled around her waist.

He grins seductively, propping himself up on one elbow. "What can I say; I have a type."

She rolls her eyes, not nearly as smitten as he'd like. "And on that note, this never happened."

His features harden instantly. "What?"

"You're a married man, Nathan," she drawls, sitting up. "And frankly, I'm not that into you." She gives him a sad little smile. "And I shudder to think what Claire would think if she found out."

Nathan sits up. "Right. That would be... awkward."

She slides away from him, glancing at the ceiling. "So, you can fly, huh?"

The non sequitur throws him off guard. "And you... set things on fire."

She glances at him knowingly, pulling the sheet up around her shoulders and rising. "Mm."

He hasn't smiled like this in seventeen years. It's disturbing. "You always were fond of innuendos." He flops back onto the pillows, hand covering his eyes.

"I'm surprised you remember," she says, the rustle of clothing muffling her voice.

"I'm a politician," he muses, stretching. "We never forget. Just us and elephants."

She's strangely quiet for a long moment, so he peeks through his fingers and finds her standing by his side, arms crossed. "You're going to have to, Nathan."

His grin is wicked. "You can't boss me around, Meridith. I'm not twenty anymore."

Her eyes soften. "I've noticed."

Lightning-quick, his hand reaches out, fingers catching on her belt buckle. "Keep noticing."

She's biting back a smile and it's disgustingly endearing. "I'm not an election, Nathan," she quips, "you can't _win_ me."

He purses his lips, raising both eyebrows as though challenging her. "I haven't lost one yet." His fingers slide to her hips, tugging her jeans down.

"...your mother's going to kill me," she groans, cupping his face. "Probably literally."

He smiles against her lips.

And really, her reaction is normal.

His, however, is entirely unexpected.


	3. III

Updated table:

01. Nathan / Claire / evolution; **02. Noah / Claire / games;** 03. Sylar / Angela / in the future; 04. Micah / Mohinder / saints and sinners;** 05. Claire / Ando / open adoration;** 06. Micah / Nathan / anything you want;** 07. Sylar / Nathan / stay for a while;** 08. Mohinder / Peter / night owl; 09. Peter / Angela / hear me out; **10. Matt / Ted / in bed;** 11. Ando / Micah / faith; **12. Lyle / Peter / ride of your life;** 13. Ando / Kaito / get it done; **14. Claude / Noah / deal; 15. Peter / Claire / kinda cute;** 16. Audrey / Janice / my place; **17. Sylar / Peter / home baked muffins;** **18. Matt / Peter / no touching; 19. Caitlin / Ricky / coffee; 20. Meredith / Nathan / the next morning;** **21. Claire / Lyle / on the phone;** 22. Monica / Micah / walk for a minute; **23. Isaac / Simone / make a move;** **24. The Haitian / Maya / in traffic;** **25. Claire / Elle / awkward**

* * *

*****

**V  
Claire Bennet / Ando Masahashi / open adoration**

Apparently, Ando has a type.

He blames all the shounen manga he read as a boy and all the ecchi stuff he smuggled to class as a teenager. He likes blondes with sparkling eyes and pursed lips, short skirts and perky breasts. It's not his fault—it's... conditioning.

"_That's_ the catalyst we're here to save?" he asks Hiro, eyes wide.

Hiro pushes up his glasses, sticking out a hand to block Ando's view. "_No_, Ando-kun!"

Ando fidgets.

"She's grown up a little... eh?" he nudges Hiro, then realizes Hiro doesn't remember.

Predictably, Hiro scrunches up his face. "We are here to save her!" he chides, muttering to himself. "And girls are kinda gross."

Ando grins, patting Hiro's shoulder. "Let's go."

They peek through the hospital window one last time before shuffling in. Surprisingly, Claire's alone. Which, Ando thinks, tends to happen when the entire hospital assumes you've died.

Her gown is soaked in blood, hair matted to her forehead, but her lips are pursed and her eyes are sparkling, and Ando is suddenly standing a little taller. "Claire Bennet."

She looks up from the bed, startled. "Oh, it's... uh, you guys."

Ando's pretty sure she should remember them, but he extends a hand toward Hiro anyway. "We are here to take you to a safe place."

Claire fixes her gaze on them, suspicious. "You didn't lose your powers, Hiro?"

Hiro beams. "They are back!"

"Yeah, mine, too," she mumbles, resigned. "Where are we going?"

Carefully, Ando draws closer. "The one place they won't be able to find you."

Claire tilts her head. "Utah?"

"Future!" Hiro claps. "Or past. It is your... ne, Ando-kun, how do you say—"

Ando bends over Claire's bed. "It is your choice," he tells her politely. "The future or the past."

Blinking, Claire contemplates for a moment. "Wait, you want to hide me in the future? Or the past? That's... well, probably a good idea, actually."

Ando smiles.

"Claire Bennet," Hiro cautions, sitting down, "the future, very uncertain!"

Claire sighs, throwing off her bloodied sheets. "Past, then." She rubs her eyes and asks, "Where... well, _when_ to?"

Hiro scratches his chin, thinking. "1990s—no good because you already living then," he muses, adjusting his glasses. " '80s and '70s bad, too," he adds. "Very bad. The Company. _Arthur Petrelli_."

Claire frowns. "Well, you're not sticking me with the hippies." Her frown deepens. "And I don't think I'd survive the '50s. Mentally."

Ando mirrors her frown. "The '40s are too dangerous," he nods, then gives her a troubled smile. "How do you feel about the 19th century?"

Calm, Claire mumbles. "Hostile. I like modern plumbing and literacy."

Hiro stands up abruptly, slamming his fist on the wall with a grin. "I got it!"

And then he's grabbing Claire's hand and clasping Ando's shoulder and—

"Will dinosaurs be attacking us soon?" Claire wonders out loud, glancing at the rolling stretches of grassland.

"Hiro..."

Hiro is beaming. "Feudal Japan, hai!"

Claire stands up, readjusting her loose gown, evaluating the situation. "Yeah, I don't think I'll be blending in here, Hiro."

Ando agrees. "Hiro, what?" he asks in Japanese. "Why here?"

He bounces. "Maybe we can find Kensei from Otousan's stories! He can protect her for sure!"

Ando opens his mouth, then decides not to burst that particular bubble. "Okay, Hiro."

Looking understandably lost, Claire sidles up to Ando and whispers, "Ando, right?"

Ando nods helpfully.

"How do you say 'Thank you' in Japanese?"

Ando smiles.

*****

**XII  
Lyle Bennet / Peter Petrelli / ride of your life**

Claire has a really weird taste in boyfriends.

"Oh, great, another flying one," Lyle sighs, closing his math textbook and turning his head to his bedroom window, where another dark-haired dude is floating.

"I'm looking for Claire," the guy says, and Lyle stands up, crossing the distance.

"Of course you are," he acknowledges, unceremoniously closing the window in the guy's face.

The window opens. "I have to talk to her."

Irritated, Lyle glances at his cell phone. "Go stand in line behind the rest of her flying boyfriends."

The guy opens his mouth but no sound comes out, and then: "Um, no, I'm her uncle."

Lyle mentally scrolls down the family tree. "Sorry, I don't remember you, Uncle."

The guy looks uncomfortable, but determined. "No, I'm her _real_ uncle. Peter. Peter Petrelli."

Something in Lyle's chest twitches violently. He grits his teeth and grabs his cell phone. "I'm calling the cops."

Peter cringes, hopping into Lyle's room. "I'm sorry," he says sheepishly, "I didn't mean to imply that you aren't her real family—I... look, she's in danger."

Lyle's thumb pauses over the dial. "Yeah, that's sort of her default status."

"I have to find her," Peter implores.

With a small sigh, Lyle tosses his cell phone on the bed. "Okay, then. Let's go."

Confused, Peter narrows one eye. "What?"

"I'll take you to her," Lyle explains casually, grabbing his jacket off the chair. "And you're going to fly me there."

Peter raises both eyebrows. "Uh, I'm not really—"

"How fast can you go?" Lyle asks curiously, rummaging in a drawer for the wristwatch his father gave him.

"Pretty... fast, I guess?" Peter replies, startled.

Lyle pauses. "So, do I just climb on or what?"

Peter scratches the back of his neck. "Look, this is really..." he trails off, possibly remembering he has an actual mission. "Yeah, hop on."

Excited, Lyle grins, consciously blocking out the fact that he's about to jump a guy. He wraps his arms awkwardly around Peter's neck, then wonders if he should say _Giddy up!_ or if Peter will say _Thank you for flying Petrelli Airlines_, but then they're taking off, straight up, above the roof.

"Where to?"

Lyle stares at the cluster of houses below his feet. "...awesome."

Peter bites back a grin. "Focus."

Eyebrows raised, Lyle glances at the distant mountaintops. "North."

Peter nods, and then it's a straight line ahead, slicing through the cold night air.

Lyle clings on, arms a little sore, hair flying into his eyes, and thinks maybe his sister's uncle is okay.

"What else can you do?" he asks loudly, cheeks freezing.

Peter waves a hand and the trees below them bend as though in greeting.

Lyle rolls his eyes, but wonders if he's too old to be adopted by the Petrellis.

*****

**XV  
Peter Petrelli / Claire Bennet / kinda cute**

If she were a normal kid, she'd make lists. Rank her favorite actors, singers, celebrities, in order of preference or hotness or cash potential. But right now, in Peter's apartment, Claire doesn't have time for lists.

Of course, Peter is:  
1. Not on any of her hypothetical lists.  
2. Pissing her off.  
3. Kinda cute.

And okay, he's only cute because:

1. He's worried about her.  
2. He's completely powerless.  
3. He does that thing when he smiles that makes her feel a little dizzy.  
4. His eyes never stray from hers.  
5. He'd do anything to protect her.  
6. His jeans fit him really well.  
7. His voice makes her feel safe.  
8. He has a seriously nice back.  
9. The way he says her name—  
10. ...lists are stupid and she doesn't have time for them.

"Claire," he says, back bare and bruised. "We have to get out of here."

She drags the washcloth down his spine. She's aware there's no blood left to wipe off, but her hands aren't listening. "I know."

This is wrong.

1. Because he's ten years older than her.  
2. Because he's her freakin' uncle.  
3. Because he's hurt and she's... manhandling him.

"Where are we going?" she asks finally, wringing out the washcloth. "I hear Hawaii's lovely this time of year."

She sees him smile, his face half-turned. "Yes, they'd never find us there."

"I know, right?" she grins, wiping her hands on her jeans and reaching for his discarded shirt. "Nothing bad ever happens on islands."

He rises, absentmindedly grabbing his shirt. "Well, except on _Lost_—"

Their fingers meet.

Her eyes dart up to his. And okay, he has to stop:

1. Smiling.  
2. Looking at her in general.  
3. Being adorable.  
4. Talking.

"—and then you have to go back home, Claire."

She frowns, pretending she's been listening. "I'm not going anywhere."

The reasons for staying are countless, and she could spend days listing them, so, yeah, it's a good thing Claire's not a normal kid.

*****

**XIV  
Claude / Noah Bennet / deal**

He's had partners before.

Normal ones. Ones that didn't just suddenly materialize in the bathroom when his pants were down. Or sneak up on him during stakeouts, dangling invisible steaks in front of his face.

"Get it? Steak because we're on a..." Claude clears his throat, raising his eyebrows. "I was told this would be fun."

Noah rolls down his window, careful not to lean on the horn. "Get in."

Claude gives him a lopsided grin, padding around the car to the passenger seat. "Didn't know you were a vegetarian, Bennet."

"Close the door."

Claude scowls, biting into his steak sandwich and lazily closing the car door with his elbow. "Something the matter?"

Noah's eyes narrow to gray slits. "No."

Claude puts his feet up on the dashboard, grease dripping onto his chin. "Did the wee ones keep you up all night again?"

Noah snaps his head to stare his partner down. "How do you—"

Claude shrugs. "I'm invisible, mate. And curious," he mumbles around a piece of bread, lowering his legs. "Your wife's quite nice—"

Noah's pointing his gun at Claude before he can finish the sentence. "That's enough."

Unaffected, Claude merely stops eating, then, with a sigh, turns invisible.

"There isn't much you can hide from me, y'know?" he tells Noah, accent sharpening the words.

Aggravated, Noah's hand shreds through the air and slams an invisible head onto the dashboard. "Stay away from my family."

Claude materializes beneath Noah's fingers, cheek smushed against the panel. "Why? We're partners."

Noah loosens his hold. "And?"

Claude pouts. "And... we're going to change the world together?"

Slowly, Noah lets go.

"How about I make you a deal, eh?" Claude asks boyishly, wiping pieces of steak off his bruised cheek. "I'll _tell_ you before I come over."

Noah stares. "You'll _wait for an invitation_ before you come over."

Claude grins, pleased. "So I'm being invited, then?"

Begrudgingly, Noah can't help but smile. "We'll see."

*****

**X  
Matt Parkman / Ted Sprague / in bed**

The suckiest thing about mind-reading is... everything.

_'...wow, he could do sooo much better...'_

_'...I wonder which one's on top... oh, god, I hope it's the little one...'_

_'...not what I need to see this early in the morning...'_

_'...damn gays, flaunting their... gayness...'_

"I'm married!" Matt barks, startling the passerby. "To a lady!"

The people around him scurry across the plaza, eyeing him surreptitiously as they scatter.

"People thinking you're gay for me again?" Ted asks casually, tearing into a giant pretzel.

"No," Matt clarifies grumpily, "they think we're both gay. For each other. Look, can you, I don't know, not stand so close?"

Unamused, Ted rolls his eyes. "Alright, I'll go back to Nevada. That far enough?"

Matt sighs, beaten. "No, okay. I'm sorry."

Ted doesn't look up from his pretzel. "So, Parkman," he begins, sounding uninterested, "what exactly are they thinking?"

Startled, Matt blinks. "Uh, just... you know. Stuff. I—I can't control the noise yet."

"So, you hear everything?"

"The loud stuff."

Ted pops a piece of pretzel into his mouth. "Wanna trade abilities?"

"No. No, that's okay." Nervous, Matt scans the plaza for signs of Bennet. "What the hell's taking him so long?"

Brooding, Ted leans against a pillar. "Do they think the same stuff when the three of us are together?"

With a blink, Matt raises both eyebrows high, practically to his hairline. "What? No. No, thank god. People generally think we're drunk and Irish, and possibly in the NRA?"

The corner of Ted's lips curls. "So, it's just the two of us that look gay together?"

Matt pauses. "I guess."

Ted shrugs, amused. "Well, you did speak for my wife. _As_ my wife. So maybe I feel like you're her and people pick up on it."

Matt freezes.

"I'm joking, Parkman. Relax."

Matt does, leaning against the opposite pillar and crossing his arms. "No way would I be the girl."

Ted actually laughs. "Oh, you'd be the girl."

Matt gives an exasperated grunt and tears himself a piece of Ted's pretzel. "Not for you, pal." He thinks for a moment, then blurts out, "Michael Jordan, maybe."

Ted raises an intrigued eyebrow. "Huh."

"What?"

"No, just... figured you'd be more of a Clay Aiken type."

"He's not gay."

"Yeah, okay."

Bennet pops out of nowhere, making both Matt and Ted jump. "What are we talking about?"

"Sports," Matt offers quickly, exchanging a glance with Ted.

_'Gay.'_

Matt sends a withering glare Bennet's way.

Clearly, he's gonna have to set them both straight.

No pun intended.


End file.
